


These Woods Are Lovely, if you ignore the werewolves.

by AkiRah



Series: Hold The Sky [8]
Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Gen, Meddling in the private lives of elves, The Nature of the Beast, The elvhen used is from Fenxshiral's "Project Elvhen" as is always the case with me, Werewolves, brief rape mention (no worse than in the game) in later chapters, non-translated Elvhen because Surana doesn't speak it, rhyming trees, the brecilian forest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-10
Updated: 2015-09-16
Packaged: 2018-04-20 01:31:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4768484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AkiRah/pseuds/AkiRah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Surana and her companions continue on their quest to stop the blight by gathering allies. They approach the Dalish camp in the Brecilian Forest and are tugged into the middle of a centuries long grudge match between elves and werewolves. Because that's the sort of thing that happens when you're a hero. Apparently.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Whose Woods These Are, I think I know

“You are not as callow as I thought.” Sten said as Surana leaned against a tree to adjust her boot. Laying Duncan and Cailan to rest had calmed her spirits, and it seemed to have done wonders for Alistair, Leliana and Wynne as well. The shadows of that place were starting to lift from their eyes. 

She blinked in confusion, looking up at Sten and then dropped her gaze to focus on fixing her laces. “Callow? You thought I was _callow_.” She hadn’t been called _callow_ since the tower, where Rupert had called her such almost daily. He wasn’t _wrong_ perse, but _still_. Surana reached up to the braid dangling over her shoulder and tossed it back behind her. “ _Callow_. Really?” 

“You sound surprised.” Sten wrinkled his brow. “You must have heard this before.” 

“That is _not_ the point!” 

“You’ll get over it, eventually.” 

Surana crossed her arms and stuck her tongue out childishly. Callow _indeed_. She’d show _him_ Callow. Wait. That was the opposite of what she wanted. Surana chuckled and rolled her eyes. “Why did I let you out of that cage again?” 

It was a rhetorical question, but Sten answered anyway, a very small smile softening his harsh features. “I have wondered that myself, Kadan. It is one of the many things I find pussling about your behavior.” 

“You know, Sten. _You_ are plenty puzzling _yourself_.” 

Sten snorted. “What is there to be puzzled by? I am a simple creature. I like swords. I follow orders. There’s nothing else to know about me.” 

“You’re not nearly that simple.” Surana replied. “And you know it.” 

Sten’s smile brightened. “As I said, you’re not as callow as I thought.” 

She fell into step beside him, as much as she could considering the difference in the lengths of their strides. “What does _Kadan_ mean, Sten?” 

“It is our word for _heart_ , used to signify those we care for. I did not expect to find one here who would become kadan to me. Your closest translation would be . . . friend.” 

Surana beamed. “Then, would it be acceptable for me to call you Kadan as well?” 

Sten nodded. 

Surana rolled the word around in her head. _Kadan_ , it felt strange and she was fairly certain she would butcher the pronunciation when she tried to use it, but if _Sten_ was a title--as Zevran had pointed out one evening--then using the more appropriate title was important, given how Sten seemed to need a certain amount of rigidity in his life. 

The Brecilian forest was ancient, in the truest sense of the word. Timeless and old, even on its outskirts. The Harvestmere winds had come and begun to turn the leaves a rich gold, but the forest did not seem dead or even ready to sleep. 

“Beautiful,” Surana breathed the word. She ran her hand along the side of one tree and closed her eyes to breath in the air, richer here, cleaner. The woods smelled sweet, she couldn’t quite put her fingers on _how_.

“Are you alright, Neria?” Alistair asked, pausing in his conversation with Zevran. 

“Fine. Fine.” 

“Never seen a forest before.” Wynne chuckled. “I was much the same my first time.”

“It’s so . . . green.” She said, and immediately felt stupid. “I mean, of course it’s _green_ but it feels, the Fade is thin here, present but it almost tingles against my skin. Everything is so _alive_ and it’s not mucky and damp like the wilds were.” She turned to shoot a sheepish smile to Morrigan. “Er. . . sorry.” 

Morrigan brushed the comment away with a wave of her elegant hand, as though it were beneath her to even be ruffled. It probably was.

There was a small _fwumph_ behind them and Surana turned in time to see Wynne picking herself up, her hand pressed to her forehead and pulsing with familiar light. 

“Wynne!” Surana jogged back. “Are you alright?” 

“Uhnn,” Wynne waved her free hand to discourage the worrying. “I . . .fell.” 

“Wow.” Surana stared at her and then crossed her arms. “Well, your observational skills are _unmatched_.” She shook her head to apologize silently for the sarcasm. “Are you alright?” 

“For a moment there I thought I was,” Wynne smiled a little and dropped her hand. “I thought it was all over.” 

That was not the answer Surana had expected and it _really_ wasn’t one she found comforting. “Thought _what_ was over.” 

“Everything.” 

“No.” Surana shook her head. “Nope. No.” She summoned power into her fingers and Wynne stood a little straighter as the pain from where she’d fallen started to fade. 

“I will explain everything tonight at camp,” she promised. “Now is not the time.” 

“ _Now_ is a fine time.” Surana crossed her arms defiantly and then dropped them. “But . . . fine. Just, please be careful.”

“You’re sweet to worry.” 

“Hrmph.”

* * *

They followed the narrow dirt road into the forest, the trees pressing closer and tighter the deeper they went. The forest’s heart, Surana imagined, would be darker, but here the sunlight filtered easily through the canopy, leaving dappled shadows on the ground. She spotted the remnants of a building further down the path, a wall long since broken down by the passage of time so that only crumbling, man-sized columns remained. She could hear the sounds of conversation, tell tale-hints of campers. 

The Dalish. 

“ _Te’veras!_ ”

The voice rang out as they neared the encampment. Surana and Zevran both stopped walking almost immediately, only a few steps before everyone else. An elvhen woman stepped out from around a tree, a bow in her hand, ready, but non-threatening. She was a few inches taller than Surana, her hair tied back and her face tattooed in black vallaslin like stylized antlers, marking her as both an adult and _also_ as one who favored . . . G-something. The halla mother. 

Ghilan’nain. 

Though she _might_ have revered Andruil, The Huntress, instead. Surana’s understanding of the Dalish pantheon was entirely academic and admittedly she had found herself more interested in _Tevinter_ history because it was less . . . mythic and involved more substantiated facts. 

“Hold, Outsider.” The huntress spoke curtly, but not in a harsh or cruel tone. “You may be of my kind, but you are not Dalish, why are you here?” 

“We have business with your leader, actually.” Surana smiled. Years of Circle politics had taught her that _smiling_ was often the best mask and weapon one had when they were out of their depth. And she felt fairly _constantly_ out of her depth. 

“And what business is that?” 

“We’re Grey Wardens,” Surana replied, hoping desperately that the _Dalish_ were unlikely to sell them out to Loghain. It wouldn’t have been unheard of, but . . . from everything Surana had heard about the Dalish, they were likely too proud to bend their knee to a human Teryn. 

That was sort of what made them Dalish. 

That and the tattoos and worshipping the Creators. 

Many elves at the Circle were fascinated by stories of the Dalish. They were the ultimate expression of freedom for those who were _truly_ and _physically_ caged. Even Surana felt a small twinge in her chest. These were _real_ elves. 

She just had pointy ears. 

The huntresses mouth twisted into a bit of a smile. “That is not a lie many would attempt. Come. I will take you to the Keeper, he will decide if your business is worth while.” 

“Thank you.” 

The huntress, lead them into the camp and Surana felt the twinge about _real_ elves in her chest again. Real elves, _free_ elves. The camp was quiet, as though overcast with dark clouds and oppressive thunder. She could hear pained moaning behind one of the huge wooden landships ( _Aravels_ , Rupert’s voice echoed from one of her lessons) and further off the call of some sort of beast. 

They were lead to roughly the center of the camp where a bald elvhen mage was in conversation with a girl who was obviously his pupil. He looked old, but old in the way statues looked old, a weight in his shoulders rather than his face. He turned as they approached. 

“ _Savhalla, Hahren._ ” The woman raised her hand. 

“ _Savhalla, Mithras._ ” The Keeper replied. “I see we have guests.” 

Stanton, to Surana’s surprise, crouched and growled, his ears lying flat against his head. She set her palm between them, suddenly on edge. Stanton didn’t growl often, and he straightened and calmed when her fingers were on him. 

The keeper clicked his tongue. “And a hound amongst them. As though we didn’t have enough trouble with such creatures.” He shook his head and addressed the huntress, Mithras, again. “Who are these people, Mithras? I have precious little patience for outsiders today.” 

“They claim to be Grey Wardens and wish to speak with the clan. I thought it best to leave the decision to you.” 

Surana took a moment to be grateful that they were speaking the trade tongue _instead_ of elvhen, even if they were talking about her as though she weren’t present. 

“I see.” The Keeper sighed, but smiled, a weary, threadbare smile. “ _’ma Serannas,_ Mithras. You may return to your post.” 

“ _Ma nuvenin, Keeper_.” Mithras inclined her head again and headed back the way they had come. 

The keeper turned his attention almost immediately and fully onto Surana. “Now, allow me to introduce myself. I am Zathrian, the keeper of this clan, its guide and preserver of our ancient lore. And you are?” 

“Neria Surana, a pleasure.” _When in doubt, manners and smiles._

Zathrian did not smile. “If you’ve come to bring news of the Blight, it is not needed, I sensed its corruption some time ago. I would have already taken the clan North if we were in a position to do so, but as you can see, we are not.” 

“Yes, seems like you’ve had troubles of your own.” Alistair sighed, speaking mostly to himself. “What are the odds?” 

Zevran laughed, but Wynne, luckily, gave them both a little shove. 

Surana pretended she hadn’t heard any of it because acting like _children_ in front of a man they needed the assistance of was probably not _wise_.

It was funny though. 

“No doubt you are here regarding the treaties we signed years ago.” 

“Er. Yes.” 

“Sadly, the clan is in no position to assist the Grey Wardens with the Blight.” Zathrian sighed and shook his head. “Come, I will explain.” 

He lead them around some aravels and deeper into the camp to an infirmary, where the moaning had been coming from. Zathrian’s expression was mournful as Surana and the others survey the mauled elves in horror. 

“We came to the Brecilian forest a month ago,” Zathrian began to explain. Surana knelt beside a cot and started to work automatically on healing a nasty claw wound in a hunter’s leg. “It is our custom when we enter this part of Ferelden. We were . . . ambushed. We know well the forests dangers and stay clear of them, but we did not expect the werewolves to be lying in wait. We drove them back but . . .” he gestured to the injured men and women. “Many of our warriors fell. The survivors . . . we work to heal them knowing that eventually we may have to strike them down before they become beasts themselves.” 

Stanton growled again, and this time it was Alistair who set a hand on his head. Stanton calmed and Alistair looked genuinely surprised that he hadn’t lost any fingers. 

“The Blight’s evil must be stopped,” Zathrian told them, “but we are in no position to uphold our obligations. I am truly sorry.” 

Surana wiped the blood off her hands. “Is there anything we can do to help?” 

“We do not _really_ intend to waste our time here when they have already said they can not help us, do we?” Morrigan raised one perfect eyebrow in skepticism and annoyance. 

“These people are dying.” Surana argued. “I can’t just . . . not.” 

Morrigan scoffed. 

Zathrian, however, looked moderately grateful, if equally skeptical. “The affliction is a curse that runs rampant in their blood, bringing agony and eventual death . . . or transformation into something monstrous. The only thing that could help them must come from the source of the curse itself, and that . . . that would be no trivial task to retrieve.” 

“Luckily,” Surana shrugged and finished wiping the blood off her fingers. “Non-trivial tasks have become something of a speciality of mine.” 

Zathrian raised an eyebrow at that and the first hint of a smile touched at the corner of his mouth. It didn’t last. “Within the Brecilian Forest there is a great white wolf. We call him _Av’inga’banafelast _. Witherfang, in your tongue. It was within him that the curse originated, and it spreads through his blood. If you brought me his heart I _may___ be able to undo this curse.” He gestured back to his aravel in the center of camp. “This task has proven too dangerous for us. I sent hunters into the forest a week ago, and none have returned. I can not risk any more of my clan.” 

“I guess we’re going wolf hunting then,” Surana reached over and set her hand on Stanton’s head. He shifted and licked her fingers. 

Zathrian wrinkled his nose at Stanton, but his expression when he looked back at Surana’s face was almost fond. “I must warn you, more than werewolves lurk in the forest. These woods have a long history of carnage and murder, you see.” 

“The veil’s thin here, I know.” Surana shrugged, probably less concerned than she should have been. “I can feel it.” 

“You may camp here, without, while you undertake this camp. I will have Varathorn, our master craftsman, set aside some supplies in case you have need of them.”

“Thank you. We’ll leave first thing in the morning. I don’t relish the idea of fighting werewolves in the dark.”

* * *

They explored the camp in the last of the light. Surana engaged the crafts master in conversation while purchasing a brooch she thought Morrigan would like and learned a little bit about June, the elvhen God of crafting and about Ironbark. 

She wandered on, following the unfamiliar sounds of beasts to a small herd of snowy white halla. They were _magnificent_ , a little taller than Stanton with elegant legs and horns that twisted and spiraled skyward. Surana was staring long enough to notice that one had been separated from its fellows. Curious, she told Stanton to wait and made her way over. The halla tender explained some of the Dalish’s history with the Halla, the tale of Ghilan’nain’s transformation, though in a different manner than Surana had read, and asked if, perhaps, Surana could help her diagnose the halla’s suffering. 

Surana stepped forward and knelt, the way she had with Stanton when they had first met. The beast bent its head. “She’s . . . definitely trying to communicate.” She said nervously. “But she doesn’t seem . . . hurt . . . at all. Maybe . . .” 

The halla tender, Elora, knelt down and met the halla’s eyes. They shared a moment. 

“She worries for her mate,” Elora smiled faintly. “I had not even realized another halla was sick. Thank you.” 

“My pleasure.” Surana reached out her hand and the halla touched it briefly with her nose before moving quickly back. 

She rejoined Stanton and followed him back up to the camp where Zevran and Leliana were talking in low tones. 

“You two look suspicious.” Surana raised an eyebrow. 

“We’ve stumbled upon the most beautiful piece of gossip, Neria.” Zevran grinned. “The sort that terrible stories are written about.” 

“You are _terrible_ , Zevran.” Leliana smacked him in the arm. “It’s really very sad!” 

“What’s sad.” 

“You see that elf over there, the older one without the tattoos?” Zevran asked. 

“Yes.” Surana nodded. 

“The tattoos, called vallaslin, mark when a dalish elf has come of age. There’s some sort of trial or ritual that comes first, then the ritual of the markings themselves.” 

“Okay.” 

“So, he is a child in the eyes of the clan.” Zevran’s grin spread. “And the beautiful red head he’s staring mournfully at?” 

“I think I get it,” Surana sighed. 

“We should help them.” Leliana sighed. “Poor dears.” 

Surana shrugged. “Not like I’m doing anything else at the moment.” She made her way over to where the tattoo-less elf was sitting and gave him a smile. “You look troubled.” 

“I . . . yes,” he stood when she came closer, reminding her of nothing so much as a terrified rabbit. “I’m Cammen, hunter apprentice though . . . I wish I could become a real hunter.” 

“I’m Neria,” she smiled at him. “Why can’t you?” 

“I . . .” he dropped his gaze from her nose to his own feet. “I shouldn’t be talking about this with an outsider. You wouldn’t understand.” 

What had started as idle curiosity for Zevran’s gossip and pleasing Leliana’s desire to help everyone turned into actual interest. Surana’s smile warmed. “You don’t know that. I’m fresh out of apprenticeship myself. Albeit not for hunting.” 

“I suppose it can’t hurt,” Cammen said. “It’s not like you can help me. I’ve been an apprentice for too long. To become a true hunter you need to bring the Keeper the pelt of a beast you killed yourself, a wolf or a boar or . . . something.” Cammen sighed. “I wanted to hunt in the forest, but after the attack we’ve been forbidden from leaving the camp. That’s not even the real problem.” 

“And what _is_ the real problem?” Surana asked, guessing it was the “beautiful red head” Zevran had pointed out. 

“Gheyna.” Cammen looked mournfully back at where Gheyna was sitting, confirming Surana’s suspicions and Zevran’s gossip. “She’s my heart’s desire. I’ve asked for her hand but she cruelly refuses me. She says she will not bond with an apprentice and calls me a child. I’m _not_ a child and if I were a hunter I could proved it. I feel so helpless.” He kicked the tree he was leaning against and winced. “I shouldn’t have brought it up. Just. . . leave me to my misery.” 

“I brought it up,” Surana reminded gently. “And there’s got to be some way to fix it.” 

“You think I haven’t thought about it? There’s _nothing_ I can do.” 

“I could talk to her.” Surana shrugged.

“You _could_.” Cammen slumped. “But what good will that do? The situation hasn’t changed.” 

“I can be remarkably persuasive,” Surana smiled. “There are enough sad love stories in the world, I’d like to do what I can to lighten the load.” 

Cammen brightened. “Really?” 

“Really.” 

“I’m willing to try anything,” he beamed. 

“It can’t possibly hurt.” Surana shrugged one shoulder. 

As she was walking towards where Gheyna was sitting, Zevran and Leliana intercepted her, grinning. They each threw and arm over her shoulders. “What are you doing, my friend?” Zevran asked. 

“Are you doing what I think you’re doing?” Leliana was all smiles. 

Surana shrugged them both off. “Helping and _yes_.” She couldn’t hide the little smile on her mouth. “It just . . . feels nice to do something small.” 

“Better not let Morrigan hear. She’d scowl for days.” Leliana giggled. 

“Ah, but she is so beautiful when she scowls. And when she threatens. Truly, if the woman were less of a harpy I think she would be popular with so many men. And women.” 

“Lay off her, Morrigan’s still new at . . . people. And shoo. I can’t talk to Gheyna with you two hovering like vultures.” 

“Tell us _everything_.” 

“Obviously. Go!” She shooed them both away. 

As she had suspected, Cammen’s affections _weren’t_ one sided and while there were many questions about propriety and providing for a future family, Gheyna was easy to convince. Surana watched with a grin as the two lovers spoke in quiet tones, bashful and blushing, reaching out to touch one another and then hesitating. 

They shared an awkward kiss and Surana chuckled. 

“Leliana says you’re playing matchmaker.” Alistair said from behind her, leaning against a tree. “Having fun?” 

“A bit. It’s nice to help.” 

“Speaking of helping, do you think the Dalish have heard anything about Wynne’s old apprentice? Anerin?” 

Surana sucked on her teeth. “I don’t know. It couldn’t hurt to ask.”

* * *

Zevran cackled as he joined Surana and the rest around the fire where they were listening to Sarel, the clan’s storyteller. “You’ve done well my friend,” he leaned against Surana’s shoulder, putting her in mind of the tower’s cat when he had wanted his ears scratched. “Tonight Cammen and Gheyna will have the awkward sort of sex only two virgins desperately in love can manage.” 

“That’s dreadful.” Surana swatted him playfully and Zevran shifted to lean more comfortably against her. 

“It’s true. And I imagine it will be marvelous. No worries. They will be better at it in time.”

“ _Dreadful_.” 

“Perhaps. However, while I was passing their tent, shortly before they entered it, Cammen gave me this.” Zevran produced and held out a book. “He said it has been in his family for generations, but that he wanted you to have it, as thanks for your assistance in getting him and Gheyna together.” 

Surana took the book and cradled it to her chest. “The Tale of Iloren,” she read aloud. “Ooh! And it’s in trade! I can actually read this!” 

“You’re fond of books then?” Leliana asked.

“I used to spend all my time in the library, when I could. I would read on my own or tease Jowan while I worked out my next move in my . . .” Surana’s face fell. “. . . chess game.” 

“Aha.” Wynne chuckled. “I had wondered who left the board out all the time. Who were you playing with.” 

“...Cullen.” 

“Did you find anyone to ask about Anerin yet?” Alistair asked, clearing his throat to change the subject. He set his hand on Surana’s knee to let her know it was alright. 

Surana shook her head, grateful to not be talking about Cullen again. “Zathrian is . . . busy and his first? Lanaya? She’s a little annoyed at me about the Cammen-Gheyna thing. Though they seem happy and no one else seems to mind.” 

“You’re kind to be looking,” Wynne sighed, “but Anerin is--”

“Anerin the healer?” Sarel asked. Surana realized abruptly that they’d started speaking, rather rudely, during a lull in the story. She flushed, but it wasn’t really noticeable in the fire light. 

“You know Anerin?” 

“I . . .” Wynne stared. “It can’t--Perhaps it’s a common elf name.” 

Sarel shook his head. “I know of only one Anerin. Anerin said he was from the human cities. You are old friends of his then?” 

“Wynne is,” Surana grinned. “If it’s the same Anerin, anyway.” 

“If you’re looking for him, he’s in the forest.” Sarel explained. “He prefers to be amidst the plants and animals.” 

“Even with all the werewolf attacks?” Surana’s eyes went wide. “Isn’t that . . . dangerous?” 

“It is, but he refuses to stay with the camp.” Sarel shrugged. “Has he always been this stubborn?” he asked Wynne. 

“Yes,” Wynne said softly, looking into the fire. “Oh yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The elvhen used is from Fenxshiral's "Project Elvhen", while I usually try to include translations as hovertext, I didn't this time because Surana doesn't speak elvhen. So here are the translations, if you were curious. 
> 
> Te'veras! -- Stop
> 
> Savhalla-- Hello
> 
> 'Ma Serannas-- my thanks


	2. Wild Wild West(ern Brecilian Forest)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While walking through the woods to find the werewolf stronghold our heroes begin to wonder if more is going on than Zathrian had told them.

“Are you lost?” Sten asked as they passed what Surana _hoped_ was not the same stump for the third time. 

“Sarel warned us that the forest is like a thing alive,” Surana tried to deflect, “it opens and closes paths and--a little.” She hung her head. “I might be a little lost.” She reached up the bun she had twisted her braid into and gave it a small squeeze because her usual comfort of fiddling with her hair was unavailable. “It just . . . the trees all look the same. To me. Anyway. They’re not . . .” 

“Shelves?” Wynne volunteered. 

“Or walls. Or columns. And it’s not . . . round. It’s very hard to get lost in the Tower.” 

“Perhaps _I_ should lead,” Morrigan volunteered. Surana braced for inevitable arguments, but there were none. Everyone nodded. 

“That . . . yes. Probably for the best.” 

They were attacked by werewolves and wolves shortly thereafter and Morrigan smiled her unaffected, distant smile. “I believe we are going the right way.” 

“Probably.” Surana sat down on a stump and noticed the wood matched the description Varathorn had given her of the ironbark. She put some in her pack and then plucked the small white flower growing beside the stump. She twisted it in her fingers. Convenience, it seemed, found her in the strangest and least convenient ways. 

 

“Leliana.” 

“Yes, Neria?”

“Come here.” She handed the flower over as Leliana came close. “You should keep it in your pack, with your clothes.” 

“Flowers?” Leliana asked. “Thank you, they’re very pretty.” 

Surana rolled her eyes. “ _Smell_ them.” 

Leliana gave her a curious look, one eyebrow cocked before bringing the flowers up to her nose, obviously willing to humor her friend. The way her mouth parted to a soft “O” of surprise and her eyes widened was better than any smile Leliana might have flashed. She lowered the flower and there was unmistakable moisture in her eyes. “They smell just like she used too. Thank you for remembering.” 

“We might have a hard time drying them while we’re on the move,” Surana shrugged apologetically, “but we can pick some more as we come across them and we can keep them in with your clothes.” 

Leliana curled her arms around Surana and pressed fond kisses to her cheeks, the action surprising and ticking and Surana flushed and giggled. “How dear of you, Neria. How absolutely divine.”

* * *

“Think of it, Zevran.” Morrigan purred as they took a small break. Surana looked up from the water she had cupped in her hands to drink. “You may have stumbled into a most delightful possibility for your future.” 

“Oh?” Zevran asked. “Are you dispensing professional advice now?” 

“It simply occurs to me that if, say, Alistair were to become king of Ferelden he man have need of someone with your . . . talents.” 

“What are you too--I’m not going to be king!” Alistair interjected and was ignored as Zevran chuckled and stuck a piece of jerky in his mouth, chewing slowly. 

“From what I know of the fellow--”

“--Right here!” 

Zevran continued to ignore Alistair’s protests, spinning his jerky in one hand. “It seems there would be a fair difference between what he _needed_ and what he cared to make use of.” 

“If Alistair becomes king,” Morrigan said, “It would certainly not be through any brilliance on his part.” 

“I. Am. Right. Here.” Alistair looked at Surana. “They do this on purpose, you know?” 

Surana nodded and scooped more water, having lost hers. “And trying to stop them encourages them.” 

“Whoever _puts_ him on the throne, however, now there’s the one who will need you.” 

“Hmmm,” Zevran tapped his chin. “Now that’s an interesting thought. You’ve such a devious mind, my dear.” Zevran looked at Morrigan and narrowed his eyebrows to what could only be called _sultry_. “Why have we not made love as of yet.” 

Morrigan scoffed, but purred her response and to her credit didn’t break eye contact. “For what purpose? I would sooner stab you in the fact than let you touch me, elf.” 

“And somehow that makes the idea even _more_ intriguing.” 

“Maker, I almost wish they would.” Alistair snorted. “Do you think they’d kill each other?” 

“Yes.” Surana answered automatically. “Or, well, Morrigan would kill Zevran and he’d get a lucky shot in.” 

“You’re both dreadful!” Leliana swatted at them both. “Simply dreadful.”

* * *

She heard the growling in her veins long before she saw the darkspawn. Without the element of surprise to help them, the darkspawn fell fairly quickly beneath the party’s combined skills. Zevran took a hard shot from the ogre that would have shattered his arm had Surana not been there to heal it from beneath Wynne’s barrier. 

Stanton gave a short, sharp bark and charged off into the underbrush. 

“Hey!” Surana shouted, starting immediately after him. 

He had a Dalish hunter, unconscious but alive, by the leather strap and was starting to drag him towards the others. 

“One of Zathrian’s hunters?” Surana asked. Stanton spat out the leather strap and gave an affirmative back. “He looks hurt.” She knelt, “definitely a werewolf attack, but he . . . it doesn’t look like they bit him. We should take him back to the Dalish camp.” 

She looked up at Sten. “Kadan?” 

He looked at the body and then back at her and, with the expression of one who did not like going out of his way but _would_ , knelt and lifted the unconscious hunter with ease. Surana gave him a warm and slightly adoring smile, one he returned with what could only be described as exasperated fondness as he carried the hunter back with them. 

Mithra met them near the camps edge with some of her hunters. “ _An’daran Atish’an_ outsiders. Our hunters saw you approaching and say you carry with you one of our own.” 

Surana nodded and Sten stepped forward, setting the hunter down. “He doesn’t look bi--”

“Deygan!” Mithra interrupted as she knelt at the body. “He lives. _‘Ma Serannas_. With luck Zathrian will be able to save him.”

* * *

Stanton gave the warning as they over a makeshift bridge near a waterfall. He snarled, ears back as a pack of werewolves bounded towards them and stopped, rather than attacking. 

“The Watch-Wolves have spoken true, my brothers and sisters!” one said, its voice thick with a snarl. “Another of the Dalish come to put us in our place, come to make us pay for our attack.” 

“Did it just--” Surana’s grip on her staff slackened. “You all heard that.” 

There was some confused nodded everyone still tensed for battle. 

Surana stared at the werewolf who had spoken. “Did you just talk?” 

They were supposed to be mindless beasts, at least according to all the information Zathrian had given her. Born of a curse in Witherfang’s blood. Something about his rage. It was a curse, right? A curse that made them monsters. 

“We are beasts,” the speaking werewolf growled, bending forward and clenching its long clawed hands into fists. Blood dripped from its palms. “But we are no longer simple and mindless. Let that thought chill your spine.”

“I’m . . . honestly more confused than frightened.” Surana said, accepting that the words and sentiment were both _decidedly_ unwise. 

“Grrrrah. Go back to the Dalish. Tell them you have failed. I am Swiftrunner, I lead my brothers and sisters. Go.” Swiftrunner pointed at the path behind them. “Tell them we will gladly watch them suffer the same curse we have suffered for too long. We will watch them pay!” 

“You’re the ones who attacked the Dalish then.” Surana tightened her grip on her staff. 

“We are.” Swiftrunner growled. “I only regret that we did not infect every single one of them with the curse that night.” 

“Why?” Surana asked. “Why do you hate them so much?”

“Grraaaah. _Enough_! Turn and leave while you still can.” 

“I can’t. I need to find Witherfang.” Surana lowered her staff and it began to buzz with lightning. 

“You think we would let you find the Great Wolf? You think we would let you kill him! You are a fool! Come Bro--”

Whatever Swiftrunner was in the middle of saying was cut off as Surana’s staff went off. The werewolf convulsed as electricity surged through his limbs. 

More werewolves and wolves appeared and Surana turned to deal with them. “Don’t get bit!” She shouted at the top of her lungs. “Whatever you do don’t get--aaaaaargh!” Teeth sank into her shoulder and Surana cuffed the offending beast with her staff, turning but unable to tell if it had been wolf or werewolf that had bitten her. 

“Andraste’s _ass_!” 

“Enough!” Swiftrunner shouted, sounding a retreat. “The Forest has eyes of its own and will deal with you! You have been warned.” He darted away, barely missed by a parting shot from Leliana’s bow. 

Surana pressed her hand to the bite mark in her shoulder and began to heal it. 

“Neria?” Alistair turned and looked at the blood. He pulled her hand away to inspect the bite with worried cedar eyes. “What happened?”

“Got bit.” 

“Couldn’t take your own advice?” Zevran asked, but he looked just as worried as Alistair. “Should you not lead by example.” 

“I’m fine.” Surana pressed her hand back and the skin resumed knitting together. “It was _probably_ just a wolf and if it wasn’t, well, we’re curing the werewolf curse anyway so it’s not . . . it isn’t a big deal.” She shrugged. “Let’s just keep moving.”

“Callow, Kadan.” Sten informed her in a low voice. 

“I know. I know. I’m just . . . trying not to worry.” She rotated her shoulder, it hurt, but it wasn’t stinging. “Still, the fact that they can apparently talk leads me to believe there’s more here than Zathrian explained.”

“He did not explain anything, as it were.” Morrigan pointed out with cool disdain. “Nor did you ask.” 

“He _did_ mention an ambush.” Leliana said. 

“True. But . . . why?” Surana frowned. “Maybe we’ll find out the further we go.” 

“Perhaps.” 

“Besides, if I _was_ bit by a werewolf instead of a normal wolf I would like to . . . not.” 

“Eloquent.” Sten commented. 

“Thanks. I try.”

* * *

The woods were darker they went until the ancient canopy obscured the time by casting everything in the same, near-dusk dim. It would have been lovely, Surana was certain, if it hadn’t been for the constant threat of werewolves, bears, giant spiders, walking corpses, shades, wisps, skeletons or normal wolves that seemed to lurk around every corner. 

But despite the dangers they were expecting, no one thought that the trees themselves would move until a branch swept low and knocked Alistair back off his feet. Tangling roots reached up to coil around Morrigan’s angles, immobilizing her. 

Surana’s confused cry was muffled under the blast of fire from her staff, enough that Alistair could cut himself free. 

“The very fucking _trees_ oppose us,” Surana snapped. 

But there were three mages and two warriors and two rogues and a mabari war beast and they chopped through the attacking trees like so much firewood. Surana offered Zevran a hand up and he took it, pulled to his feet. 

“What was it that beast had said?” Morrigan said. “ _The Forest has eyes of its own and will deal with you? I believe it was, perhaps this is what it meant.”_

“Sylvans,” Wynne explained. “These trees are possessed by spirits, it is not a common occurence.” 

“One more thing to watch out for. I really do hate the forest.” Zevran sighed and tucked his single braid back out of the way. 

“Let’s keep going, stay close.” Surana reached out and squeezed one of Alistair’s fingers. “You take point?” 

“Of course.” 

“Kadan?” she turned to Sten. “Will you take the rear?” 

He nodded. 

They walked in the gathering gloom until they came to a clearing. They defeated the sylvans and were passing through when a voice echoed around them. “What manner of beast be thee,” it groaned, a creaking of branches in a high wind. “that comes before this elder tree.” 

Surana stopped and looked around, her eyes up because it sounded the way she imagined trees would talk, if she was going to imagine trees talking. She hadn’t thought they would rhyme. 

“I’m . . . an elf?” She replied hesitantly. “ . . . Wouldn’t . . . you please show yourself?” 

A rumble, not unlike a warm laugh, echoed and a tree extended a branch like a welcoming arm. “Ah yes, I remember thee. Long ago the elves roamed free. Years came and swift they passed, then one day, we saw their last. Allow me to welcome thee, I am the Grand oak, sometimes called the elder tree.” 

“A rhyming tree. Lovely.” Morrigan scoffed. 

“And unless thou thinkst it far too soon, might I ask of thee a boon?” The Grand Oak enquired. 

“Is there a reason you’re rhyming?” Surana asked. 

“We would try, but we lack the timing,” Leliana tacked on to the end of Surana’s sentence with a small, mirthful lack. 

“I do not know, why dost thou not? Thy words seem plain, a mundane lot. Perhaps a poet’s soul’s in me . . . does that make me a _poet tree_?” The Grand Oak chuckled. 

Morrigan groaned. 

Alistair and Surana both started laughing and then corrected themselves to small giggles. “Poet tree. Amazing,” Surana chuckled. 

“It was but a simple jest, a jibe to entertain my guest.” 

Surana was still chuckling with laughter. “So, what was this boon, you asked about?” 

“I have but one desire, to solve a matter very dire: as I slept one early morn, a thief did come and steal an acorn.” 

“And you would like use to find it?” 

“Do we have _time_ for this, Kadan?” Sten asked. 

Surana looked over her shoulder at him. “Remember what Sarel said about staying on the forest’s good side?”

“She has a point.” Morrigan grudgingly agreed. “‘twould be best to avoid unnecessary hostilities, as we have plenty enough of those already.” 

“All I have is my being, my seed,” The Grand Oak explained in mournful rhyme. “Without it, I am alone indeed. I can not got and seek it out, yet I shall die if left without.” 

Surana nodded sympathetically. “If we go find your acorn, can you help us deal with the forest? The werewolves are attacking the Dalish clan and I need to find their stronghold.” 

“In the center of the forest the weres do dwell, or so go the tales my fellows tell. But they cannot be followed there; the forest doth protect the weres.” The Grand Oak replied. “There is magic in the skin of me, help and I’ll give a piece to thee.”

“Your wood would help me get there?” 

“The forest would see thee as a tree, and so no harm would come to thee.” 

“Sounds fair. We’ll find your seed then.” 

“Go to the east to find this man, I will wait, do what thou can.” The Grand Oak turned its head away and froze once more, disguised as a normal oak tree, though taller and more knotted than its brethren.

* * *

They stumbled upon the little camp near sundown. It was tucked into a small grove beside the river, as safe as anywhere in the forest could be. 

“Remarkably intact, don’t you think?” Zevran commented. 

Surana nodded. “I wonder where the campers are.” She looked up, the dim was darkening beyond the canopy and she stifled a small yawn. “Reminds me that _we_ should probably make camp soon.” 

“I’m surprised the coals are still warm,” Alistair knelt beside the fire pit and got a small, pleased smile. “Quite warm, wouldn’t take any effort at all to get the fire going again.” 

“Strange,” Wynne commented. “The werewolves would not use such a camp, would they? Whoever this belongs to must be nearby.” 

“Elves, maybe?” Surana asked. “They might be back soon.” 

Stanton growled, his ears laying flat against his skull. 

“Something about it bothering you?” Surana scratched his ears and Stanton barked again, more softly this time. “Still there doesn’t seem to be anything dangerous. Just . . . weird.” Surana pinched the bridge of her nose. “Foggy, almost, don’t you think?” 

“Maybe we should look around,” Leliana suggested. “If it is truly abandoned, perhaps we could stay here, rather than building our own camp tonight.”

“Good idea.” 

There was no trace of any inhabitants. The bedrolls were warm and dry, if a little old and the tent that was set up would fit two, maybe more comfortably. A sense of warm ease rolled over the party. 

And they all exchanged looks. 

“I feel comfortable,” Sten grumbled. “ _To_ Comfortable.”

“I feel a strange and . . . malevolent power,” Wynne agreed, “but my, I could use the rest.” 

“We need to leave.” Surana said, forcing her eyes away from the bedroll that looked plush and warm. Incredibly soft. The smoke curled in inviting tendrils up from the coals and smelled almost sweet. “It’s . . . Alistair how easy could we get that fire going?” 

“We should keep moving.” Morrigan yawned. “Something strong lurks--” she covered her mouth with her palm as another yawn happened. “--here.” 

“I feel like I haven’t slept in days.” Leliana complained. 

“Let’s go.” She turned and started walking determinedly away from the encampment when a wave of exhaustion struck her. She groaned and leaned on Alistair, stifling a yawn by biting her lower lip. “Maker, I can’t walk another step. Maybe . . . if we’re _no_!” She shook her head and covered her eyes. “That is _enough_!” 

Surana looked at Alistair. “Alistair. Cleanse.”

“Wh--” he yawned. 

Surana bit down on her lower lip hard enough to draw blood, the pain grounding. “Focus,” she growled to herself. “Alistair. I need you to cleanse the area. You’re a templar.” 

“I . . .” he looked confused but nodded his agreement. She watched his arm shake with the effort of moving while exhausted and then felt the wave of nausea, thick, choking blackness that struck her in the stomach as magic in a radius around Alistair was weakened, although not entirely dissipated. 

The exhaustion faded and the campsite revealed itself to be long abandoned and filled with the bones of the travelers who had slept too long to feed a greedy spirit. 

The spirit lunged angrily at Surana only to be caught in a blast of fire and ice from Morrigan and Wynne, it staggered back as an arrow struck it and fell dead when Sten severed its head from its body. 

Surana shook herself more awake. “Everyone alright?” 

“Yes.” Was the choired affirmation. 

“Take anything worth taking. We’re camping elsewhere tonight.” 

She blasted open a chest, mostly out of frustration, while everyone else looked briefly around the camp and found a pair of leather gloves, dalish make with fine embroidery along the hems. 

She grinned, letting delight at finding a little, kind thing for Zevran overrule her frustration and left over adrenaline from the spirit’s trap. “Zev!” she shouted, jogging the short distance between them. “Look what I found!” 

“Gloves?” Zevran’s tone was sharp and accusatory, not at all what she had expected. He looked down at the gloves and then back up at her and narrowed his eyes. “You’re giving me gloves? What for?” 

“I . . . thought you might . . .like them?” she tried. 

His smile, usually over-confident and bordering on a smirk even when he _wasn’t_ smirking, dropped into an awkward line and his eyes softened. “I did not mean to sound ungrateful it’s just--wait, these are of Dalish make, like my mother’s. The leather of hers was less thick, and they had more embroidery but these are very close.” His thumb ran over the leather. “They are quite handsome.” 

“I’m glad you like them.” 

“Do I seem surprised?” He chuckled, and immediately began pulling the gloves on his smile genuine and warm as he clenched his hands to fists to check the leather. 

“A little.”

“Perhaps I am. No one has ever simply given me a gift before. I appreciate that you thought of me at all.” 

“We’re friends, Zev.” Surana nudged his shoulder with her cheek. “Remember?” 

“Yes. I think I will try to.”


	3. (l)East of My Kind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The exploration of the eastern Brecilian Forest where Surana reconciles Aneirin and Wynne and plays a very frustrating game of Questions with a crazy old man living in a stump.

The camp they made in the forest was smaller than their usual. Bedrolls laid out in a small clearing near where the Grand Oak was. They took the watch in threes, Surana, Alistair and Stanton on the last one.

Surana had her nose buried in _The Tale of Iloren_ , a story she was delighted to learn was about an elvhen keeper facing down the second blight, told with charming allusions and written in the trade tongue in such a way to keep its poetry. 

Alistair was getting in his morning exercise by playing with Stanton. Surana looked up watch them wrestle, whistling if it looked like Stanton was getting too rough. They collapsed in a happy pile beside her, Alistair pinning Stanton and using his like a backrest to prove that he’d won. “Do you think he really understands what’s going on here?” Alistair asked, ruffling Stanton’s ears. “The Blight, the civil war. . .”

“Probably,” she shrugged. “He seems to understand everything else. I think he might be the smartest member of this venture, or whatever we’re calling it.”

“A close second, maybe,” Alistair chuckled. He promptly blushed beet red and turned his attention more fully to Stanton. “We’re all special,” he explained. “Big parts to play. Even you.” Alistair nodded sagely. 

Surana stood up and set about to waking everyone else as the sun crept the rest of the way up. 

“Especially you, in some ways.” Alistair continued to tell Stanton, standing up and grabbing his armor. “You’re the mabari. You guard one of the most important people--”

Stanton barked happily at Wynne, who was giving Alistair a warm smile. 

“What?” 

“Nothing,” Wynne said her smile remaining fixed. “Nothing at all.

A simple breakfast of jerky and bread washed down with stream water and they were off again, Morrigan acting as their guide because she was the _only_ member of the party familiar at all with forests. 

Though she had grown up in a swamp. Technically. 

Surana walked at the front of the party, talking idly with Morrigan and Leliana as they bickered about the Chantry and she carefully maintained a staunchly neutral position on the whole affair. 

“Why are you smiling like that?” Alistair asked from behind them. “Still. You’ve been smiling like that since this morning. You look suspiciously like the cat who swallowed the pigeon.” 

Morrigan and Leliana both snorted. Surana shook her head and pinched the bridge of her nose. _Pigeon_ , right. 

“Canary,” Wynne corrected. Surana could _hear_ the teasingly maternal smile fit itself onto Wynne’s mouth. 

“What?” 

“I look like the cat that swallowed the _canary._ ”

“I once had a very large cat,” Alistair defended. “And that’s not my point. My point is why are you smirking? Why are you _still_ smirking.” 

“You were watching Neria,” Wynne chuckled. “With great interest, I might add.” 

The conversation about the Chantry ground to a halt in favor of listening to Alistair embarrass himself. Surana’s cheeks were starting to flare with heat and color. 

“In fact,” Wynne continued, “I believe you were . . . enraptured.” 

“She’s our leader.” Alistair defended. 

“No I’m not,” Surana deflected automatically, her voice breaking just a little. She doubted anyone believed her. 

“I look to her for guidance.” Alistair clarified. 

“Oh, I see,” Wynne said. She let the conversation drop for a full minute before she added, “So, what _guidance_ did you find in those swaying hips, hmm?” 

“I think _inspiration_ would be the better term.” Zevran pitched in his two cents from the back. “And I believe I can think of rather a few things her hips would _inspire_.” 

“No! No!” Alistair’s attempt at denial made the truth stick out all the more. “I wasn’t looking at her . . . you know . . . her . . . hind-quarters.” 

“Hind-quarters?” Leliana asked in disbelief. 

“Tis more flattering than _flank_ , at least.” Morrigan laughed. 

“I will push you _both_ into the _river_.” Surana hissed. She was both supremely flattered and very embarrassed. 

“I gaze-- _glanced_ , in that direction. Maybe! But I wasn’t staring or . . . even . . . seeing anything.” 

“Certainly.” Wynne patronized. Surana wanted to look back to see if she was _actually_ patting Alistair on the head the way she would have a small child, but didn’t want anyone to see how bright she was blushing. 

“Why would we ever doubt your word, my friend.” Zevran was not helping. 

“I hate you,” Alistair muttered. “You’re bad people.”

* * *

“P-please, help,” a werewolf, shaggy grey fur stained with mud and grass was crouched near a bend in the road. It looked up at them with sad, pained eyes and tugged a scarf free from around its neck. “Listen. I am not . . .the mindless beast I appear to be.” 

“Careful,” Morrigan warned. “If they can speak they can lay ambushes.” 

“N-no!” The werewolf looked up, pleading. It spoke with the same guttural intonations that Swiftrunner had, though the voice was lighter, sadder. The werewolf dropped it’s gaze back to the ground. “I was not always as I am now. I was changed. The curse, it burns in my blood. You are an elf,” the werewolf lifted its gaze. “But not dalish. I was. I turned, was forced to flee. The werewolves took me in but I had to return. I had to. Have you seen my clan?” 

“It was Zathrian who sent us here.” Surana answered. The bite in her shoulder stung, a curse in the blood. She bit her lower lip. 

“Then you seek Witherfang?” There was a snarl in the werewolf’s voice at the name, protective, not aggressive, but it choked it down. “It is . . . not what you think. There is no time to explain. My name is . . . was . . . Danyla. My husband is called Athras.” Danyla extended her claw, the scarf outstretched towards Surana. “My scarf. Take it to him. Tell him I love him. Tell him . . .” Danyla cast her eyes away. “Tell him I am dead and with the Gods.” 

“There is death in her eyes.” Sten said quietly. “It will not be long now.” 

Surana touched the torn fabric over her own bitten shoulder and nodded. “I’ll make sure he gets it.” 

“Thank you.” There was a wetness in her eyes. “Thank you. He is . . . a good man. I only wish for him to be at pea--” Danyla cut herself off and doubled forward howling in pain. “The curse is . . . graaah, fire in my blood! Please! End it for me! End it quickly.” 

“As you wish.” Surana drew a hunting knife. “This will be faster than my magic.” She swallowed and took a cautious step forward. Danyla growled instinctively but held still as Surana drove the blade into her throat. It was a sloppy death. Blood spurted from the wound over Surana’s hands, warm and wet and Danyla gurgled a moment before her chest stopped moving. 

Surana wiped the blood off her hands onto her filthy robe and swallowed. “Friends?” She took a deep breath. “If, uh, _hypothetically_ what bit me _was_ a werewolf.” 

“I am an assassin, my friend.” Zevran interrupted. “It will be quick and truly painless.”

“Thanks.” Surana snorted a little bit. “I think, anyway.”

* * *

Woodsmoke lead them to a small fire off the main road near what Surana thought should have been lunchtime. Her appetite, after the encounter with Danyla, was non-existent. “Hello,” she called out as they got close. “Anyone around.” 

“ _An’eth’ara_ ,” an elf with carrot colored hair and a large burlwood staff looked up from what he was doing. “Be careful if you continue on, the roads are dangerous if you don’t know the paths.”

“It. . . it can’t be. _Aneirin_?” Wynne took a hesitant step forward. 

The elf looked up and furrowed his brow in confusion before recognition spread over his features. “I know that face, younger, more impulsive, stern . . . Wynne?” 

Wynne’s smile flickered like a candle between delighted an achingly sad. “I thought they’d killed you.” 

“They nearly did.” Aneirin set his project aside and stood up. He took Wynne by the elbows and squeezed in fond greeting. “The templars caught me as I was searching for the Dalish. They ran me through and left me for dead, but I survived.” 

Wynne’s smile crumpled completely. “Oh Anerin. This is my fault, if I had been less--”

“ _Atisha, Hahren._ ” Aneirin said fondly, giving Wynne arms another squeeze. “I long ago let go of the past, and you should too. I never fit in with your Chantry or your templars, here I am happy.” 

“Irving’s not unreasonable. We could find a way for you to return to the Circle. It’s so badly in need of new blood and new ideas.” 

Surana started to shake her head. Aneirin was free, and clearly not a--clearly not _much_ of a danger (the inherent dangers of being a _mage_ still existed of course), he shouldn’t have to return to the Circle. 

Aneirin’s expression darkened briefly, but it didn’t last long. “I remember Irving well. He was kind to me.” Aneirin took a step back. “I will think on it, but I make no promises. Perhaps your friend here would be of greater assistance to you in reshaping the Circle.” He gestured to Surana. 

She bit back the urge to shake her head _more_ vehemently. “I’m actually a Warden,” she explained tongue tripping over the words as she tried to get them out as quickly as possible. “I’ve got a job to do.” 

“The Blight cannot last forever.” Wynne commented. 

Surana felt panic grip at her throat, clawing it’s way to her mouth. There was _nothing_ for her at the Circle but memories and watchful, hateful eyes. Windows too high to look through and little to no sunlight or fresh air. She didn’t want to go back they couldn’t make her go back she wouldn’t go--

“Even after the Blight,” Alistair’s voice cut through the conversation, stronger than his usual tone. He set a hand on her shoulder and it grounded her. “Neria will be called on to help rebuild the Ferelden Wardens. Two people really isn’t much of an Order when you think about it.” 

Aneirin nodded, seeming to accept this. “Will you join me for lunch then? Wynne and I have much catching up to do,” he smiled at her. “If that’s alright.” 

“I would like that.” Wynne nodded. “I would like that a great deal.” 

They shared a small meal at Aneirin’s camp, Wynne and Aneirin catching up quietly themselves while the others ate and bickered and Surana tried to steady her heart beat after her panic at the thought of returning to the Circle. 

She didn’t know _why_ the thought distressed her so badly. 

But it did.

“I don’t suppose you’ve come across a thief with an acorn, have you?” Surana asked, feeling ridiculous as the words left her mouth. “There’s this. . . rhyming tree. That wants its acorn back. So it will give me the ability to pass into the werewolf stronghold where I can . . . deal . . . with things.” 

“Eloquent.” Sten commented. 

Aneirin, however, chuckled and nodded. “It’s the trees, right? They all look alike?”

“ _Yes,_ ” Surana said, a little _too_ emphatically. Her companions chuckled and she glared at them (mostly Zevran).

“I was the same when I first joined the Dalish,” Aneirin replied. “I don’t know about an acorn, but there’s a hermit near here. He’s . . . strange, but he might have some idea. It’s a ways that way,” Aneirin pointed, “he’s got a campfire and there’s a hollowed out trunk. Be careful.” 

“We will.” The words were automatic and, if she thought about them, probably a lie. 

“It was good to see you again, Wynne.” Aneirin reached up and unclasped his necklace. “Here, it’s sap from one of the oldest trees in this forest, hardened and carved. Please take it.” 

Wynne took the pendant and squeezed it in her weathered hand. She looked like she was about to cry, but her eyes stayed dry. “Thank you, Aneirin. Keep safe.”

* * *

With Morrigan at the front, they found the hermit’s clearing with relative ease. If the coals in the fire hadn’t still been smoking, Surana would have thought the place abandoned until there was a sharp _pop_ and smoke started to pour out of the hollowed stump to take the form of an old, wild-eyed man. 

The hermit. Clearly a mage. 

His eyes were wide, manic and his hair a filthy unkempt mess of grey and brown (from mud and sticks and moss). He looked at her and shook his head, mumbling to himself, “Oh dear, oh dear. Not a werewolf and not a spirit even.” He clicked his tongue with vague disdain. “What are the woods coming to?” 

Surana scowled. She cleared her throat and forced her chin up and tried to demand silently that she be taken seriously. “Excuse me, ser?” her voice was weaker than she had intended and she cleared her throat again and spoke a little louder. “Have you . . . do you know a talking Oak tree?” 

“Mayhaps I do and mayhaps I don’t.” The madman muttered. “Have you come to take it’s acorn back? Oh what fun. But wait. We’re getting ahead of ourselves.” He rubbed his hands together and smiled, revealing approximately a dozen black teeth when he did so. “Ask a question and you’ll get a question, but give an answer and you’ll receive the same! Oh, I do so love to trade!” 

“I . . . “ Surana worked out the riddle in her head. He would reply to questions with questions, probably then, and answers with answers. But how could she answer a question he hadn’t asked? Or know what the answer he gave was to? 

Wait. He was playing _Questions_ , albeit with an odd twist. She remember playing Questions with Rupert and Jowan as part of their creative thinking practice. Rupert would score them as though they were playing ball, but with questions. Statements were negative points. 

She could do this. 

“Would you like to ask me a question?” she asked. 

“I think it is your turn to ask, is it not?” 

“Do you have the Oak’s acorn?” 

“Ahhhh, it all becomes clear now!” The Madman snapped at her. “You here, that talking tree there, it all makes sense.” 

Surana took a step backwards and mentally ticked herself a point, even though the madman apparently _wasn’t_ playing Questions. 

“Yes. I stole it,” the madman continued to rant. “And it was easy. Stupid tree should have locked it up tighter. I have it, but I’ll only trade for it. And nothing from that damned tree either. No leaves. No branches. But that’s all I have to say about that. An answer for an answer, there you go!” 

“What about your book, Neria?” Morrigan said. “Cammen did imply that it was an old and rare volume, did he not?” 

“No fair bringing extra mages to a guessing game!” The madman barked. “Will you play by the rules or not?” 

Surana gave Morrigan a hurt look. Her _book_. The only book she had with her. She hadn’t even finished it yet! But, it was, arguably it was more important to get the acorn so she could return it to the Grand Oak in order to get to the werewolf sanctum, deal with Witherfang and save the lives of the cursed elves. 

Even _one_ life was more important than a book and she was doing this to save dozens. 

Surana’s shoulders slumped in miserable defeat. “I . . . would you . . . do you want to trade?” 

“Let’s see . . . I’ll trade you an acorn, a helmet I found, or a book I finished reading years ago. Provided you have something interesting in return.”

“I’ll trade you for the acorn.” 

“Oho! and what do _you_ have to trade for the acorn?” 

Surana slung her pack off of her shoulders and pulled _The Tale of Iloren_ out of it. “How about a book?” 

“A book, eh? What sort of book?”

“How about this book on Elvhen history?”

“Elvhen history hmmmm?” The madman’s eyes fixed on the cover. “That might be good for reading in the moonlight. Or better than using leaves at least. Give me that!” 

Surana’s grip on _The Tale of Iloren_ had tightened at the word “leaves” because no book deserved that fate, particularly not this old, interesting rare book that she hadn’t even had a chance to finish and had been a gift from a very nice-if-comically-sheepish young man. 

She let go as he took it and placed the acorn in her hand instead. 

It didn’t feel like a fair trade. It didn’t feel like a fair trade at _all_. 

“There!” The book went into the hollow tree beside where the madman was standing. “That’s done. What else have you got on your agenda hmmmmm?” 

“I . . . nothing.” Surana shook her head and closed her fist around the acorn. “I should go.” 

She turned on her heel and started away from his camp in the direction they had come from, listening to the old man mutter to himself about how she was off to report to _them_ now and she could only assume he meant the trees. 

Surana kicked a branch. 

“Let’s go give the Grand Oak its acorn back,” she huffed. “Poor book, didn’t deserve any of that. Did you know that Iloren laid a trap for the darkspawn? Set a whole field on fire. I have no idea if they survived or not! The clan, not the darkspawn.” 

“Surely they must have,” Leliana tried to comfort her, “someone told the story.” 

“One or two survivors is not the _clan_ ,” Surana huffed. “Not _really_.”

“Two survivors seems to work for an order,” Zevran offered. 

Surana wasn’t sure if he was trying to help or not, it was Zevran and so _probably_ but the words jerked her back to the seriousness of their task. This was all so much more important than her book. She felt ashamed for having brought it up. 

And worried for Alistair. 

She slipped her hand into his and squeezed, just once. “True,” she answered Zevran, “I suppose two survivors is enough, if much less than ideal.”

* * *

“My acorn is still gone, so I pray to thee,” the creaking voice of the Grand Oak echoed around them as Morrigan found the clearing. “Hast thou any news for me?” 

“Is this your acorn?” Surana held her hand up towards the canopy, the acorn resting in her palm, almost shining in the sun. 

“My joy soars to new heights indeed! I am reunited with my seed!” Leaves tickled over Surana’s palm as the Grand Oak reached to take the acorn from her. The seed disappeared in its grasp, concealed by bark and leaf. “As I promised, here it be. I hope its magic pleases thee.” The Grand Oak plucked a narrow branch of of itself, about the length and width of a mage’s staff. It offered it to Surana. “Keep this branch of mine with thee, and pass throughout the forest free.” 

“I will, thank you.” She smiled. The branch was a good height for a staff, the sylvanwood had been touched by the fade for so long that channeling through it would be easy. 

After they were done here she could probably fashion it into a _really_ nice staff. 

“I wish thee well, my mortal friend.” The Grand Oak spoke kindly. “Thou brought my sadness to an end! Maybe the sunlight find you, they days be long, they winters kind, and thy roots be strong.” 

The Oak froze, a tree once more and Surana found that she was smiling. “You know,” she said, looking over her shoulder at the rest of the group. “That’s a nice blessing, I might have to remember it.” 

“The werewolf stronghold is in the heart of the forest, if memory serves.” Wynne said. 

“We should hurry. Camping out here _last_ night was hard enough of my nerves.” Surana said. “I’d like to get Witherfang dealt with before sundown if possible.” She rubbed at her bitten shoulder. “Just to be on the safe side.” 

“Tis strange, is it not?” Morrigan asked as they started walking towards the darker, deeper parts of the forest. 

“What?” 

“That Zathrian did not mention the werewolves had the ability to speak, the last one we spoke with, who gave you her scarf, said that we did not understand, and that there was no time to explain.” 

Surana frowned. “It’s. . . possible that the curse binds them to Witherfang emotionally?” 

“She was looking for her husband. Tis not the act of a captive or slave.” 

“Something to think about, definitely,” Surana agreed.


	4. Sunk and Ruined

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Party enters the Tevinter ruins in the heart of the Brecilian Forest. Ruins full of surprises and wonders. And spiders. Spiders are neither surprising, nor wonderful

They walked for a while in the gathering gloom. The heart of the forest housed the main building of the ruins that littered the forest and the walls were almost still standing, the place between the shrouded in mist, the veil made almost visible. 

Small wonder that it felt thinner throughout the rest of the forest. It was gathered and puckered in this place to form an actual barrier. Surana wasn’t sure how that was possible. 

“There is old magic here,” Morrigan said, dropping her voice to a whisper. “The trees are watchful.” 

Surana tightened her grip on the Grand Oak’s branch. “Let’s hope this work. I’ll go first.” 

She approached the mist with the branch in her hand and it began to clear. Surana breathed a little easier. “Good,” she exhaled. “Let’s keep movi-- _fuck_!” She interrupted herself as the howl went up and clawed paws rustled the ground, rushing towards them. 

“The forest has not been vigilant enough!” Swiftrunner growled. “Still you come! You are stronger than we could have anticipated. The Dalish chose well?” 

“Thank yo--?”

“But you do not belong here, Outsider.” Swiftrunner snapped his jaws to silence her confused acceptance of what he apparently had _not_ meant as a compliment. “Leave this place!” 

There was _obviously_ more going on than they had been told. Surana met Swiftrunner’s eyes, yellow and animalistic but not empty or savage. 

“Why won’t you let me settle this dispute?” She said. “There’s clearly more going on than I--”

“Graaaah! You are sent by the treacherous Dalish to _kill_ Witherfang! I will not stand by and allow that to happen!” 

“Wait. You attacked them? How are they the treacherous ones?” 

“They deserved no less!” Swiftrunner howled. “You are an intruder in our home! You come to kill, as all your kind do! Here Witherfang protects us! Here we learn our names and are beloved! We will protect this place _and_ Witherfang with our lives.” 

“Are belo--” Surana started to ask for clarification when Swiftrunner lunged forward and bore her to the ground. She managed to block his attempts at biting her face by bracing her staff against his throat. Lightning charged in her fingers, amplified and moving freely through the sylvanwood. The thick stink of burning fur filled her nose, foul enough to make her eyes water. Swiftrunner’s claws sank deeper into her shoulders. He was kicked off of her by Sten and as he was flung tore deep red gashes in Surana’s arms. Sten’s sword came up in a beautiful arcing motion, poised to slice Swiftrunner in two. 

A wolf, snowy white with vines wrapping up it’s hide legs knocked Sten to the ground and stood between the party and the now departing Swiftrunner. It locked eyes with Surana and then lifted it’s head, sounding a mournful song before darting after the running werewolves, faster by far than Surana felt it had any right to be. 

Wincing, Surana wrapped her arms around herself in a hug so her palms rested on the bloody gashes Swiftrunner had left. She exhaled and started to heal the injuries. 

“You are hurt, Kadan.” Sten said. 

“I’ll be alright. It’s nothing I can’t handle.” Her skin began to knit closed. “I’m guessing that was Witherfang.” 

“Seems likely.” Zevran nodded. “And they seem to have run towards the ruined Tevinter temple.” 

Surana nodded. Tears dampened her cheeks. She was lucky he hadn’t torn into the tendons. 

Alistair wiped the tears away and gave her a worried, small smile. 

“Swiftrunner said something about being given names and being beloved.” Surana wiped the blood onto her dirty robes and then tore the tattered sleeves off. “If we get a chance, I would like to talk to Witherfang and see what all this is about.” 

They continued towards the ruins and there were more werewolves waiting. Surana asked Leliana and Morrigan to be ready in case they attacked, the two women more dangerous at a distance than any werewolf could possibly be. As they got close, however, Surana heard the largest shouting at its fellows. “Intruders! Intruders have deceived their way into the forest’s heart! Fall back! Defend the Lady!” 

“The Lady?” Surana frowned. “Do you think The Lady and Witherfang are one person?” 

“Didn’t Zathrian say Witherfang was a he?” Alistair asked. 

“Spirits don’t really have gender.” Surana answered. “They’re embodiments of emotions. More or less. It’s. . . complicated. The _important_ part is that I want to know what’s going on.” 

“Well, I think that’s werewolf city,” Alistair pointed at the ruin. “Must be flea heaven.”

Stanton whined. 

“Does no one in your country repair buildings while occupying them?” Sten asked, looking vaguely distraught over the state of the place. 

“They’re werewolves, Kadan,” Surana answered. “Not exactly stone masons.” 

“Hrmph.”

* * *

Two things about the ruins were immediately odd. 

The first being that it was a Tevinter building, with the strong arches that Sten didn’t care for (he made certain everyone knew) and probable traps (which he _also_ didn’t care for) but it was full of elvhen trappings. 

Secondly, the majority of it seemed to be underground. Huge tree roots formed a descending bridge between the ground floor, where the door had been, and the first basement. 

Neither the elves, nor Tevinter, were particularly known for building underground. That was a dwarf thing, though there were no signs of dwarves at all. Surana theorized that it was probably that a large sinkhole had formed and caused the floors to drop down. Though the further they went and the lack of ascending stairs was starting to squash that theory. 

Other than the architectural anomalies, it was a ruin. It was full of rubble and bones and pieces of history that would fetch a good price. It was also full of spiders, which Surana _hated_ , werewolves, which Surana didn’t like, and given how thin the veil felt, probably unpleasant spirits, which were never fun to deal with. 

It was the roar as they found the stairs that lead further down that _really_ bothered everyone, however. A loud, hissing roar that vibrated through Surana’s chest and a thick, musty smell like metal and dirt and ash. “That’s not good.” She breathed. 

“I think there’s something ahead.” Alistair frowned. “Something big.” 

“It smells like some sort of lair,” Zevran commented, wrinkling his nose. 

They descended the steps slowly, holding their breath collectively when whatever was within roared a second time. “We’re going to need a plan.” Surana muttered. “It . . . sounds like a dragon.” 

“How do you know what dragons sound like?” Leliana asked. 

“I don’t, really.” Surana tightened her bun. “But I’ve heard dragon _lings_ before. The tower sometimes keeps one in the stockroom for resources. I just . . . thought about what the sound would be like if it was . . . bigger.”

There was some nodding because that made sense. “If it _is_ a dragon, we’ll need to take it down fast. They’re dangerous up close and the fire is dangerous from a distance but . . . well, we beat Flemeth, right?” 

More nodding and even a few smiles. 

“So, Kadan, you and Alistair will rush it. Try to be mostly a distraction and focus on dodging and making noise. The tail _can_ break bone but you’ve got the best armor and Zev, I want you and Stanton to hit it, aim for weak spots while its attention is on Alistair and Sten, see if you can cripple its wings, primarily. Morrigan and Leliana can hit it from a distance and Wynne and I can focus on healing. Make sense?” 

She took a breath. “Let’s do this.” 

It _was_ a dragon. 

But it wasn’t a very large one and Surana’s plan worked almost perfectly. Sten took a hard blow to the chest, but his armor absorbed most of the damage. He shut down her offer of healing with a glare and a shake of his head. 

“But it--”

“If I am injured, we will discuss it.” He said coldly. 

Surana frowned, the magic dissipated from her fingers. “I will respect your wishes, Kadan,” she said. “But we need you. Please be careful.” 

Sten’s expression warmed a little and he nodded. Surana smiled again and went to help the others rummage through the dragon’s hoard.

* * *

A tunnel served in place of the impassable stairs to take them down to the next level. They were attacked fairly immediately by possessed corpses and more spiders. Surana shuddered and bit back on the bile in her throat as she plucked webbing from her hair and hoped _hoped_ that there weren’t small, normal sized spiders now nestled in her locks. 

“I hate spiders.” She mumbled unhappily. “Hate them. Hate them.” 

Wynne gave her shoulder a comforting pat. 

Something troubled her. She didn’t speak Elvhen, but she _knew_ that the boy was looking for his mother and looking for help. Something dreadful had happened to him. Surana looked at her companions and hurried after the specter, following the ghost trail of a crying child into a wide, circular room that housed a massive wooden door and had smaller corridors attached on either side. 

The ghostly crying child stood in the center, looking around wildly. “ _Mamae? Mamae na mara san . . ._ ”

“Calm down,” Surana brought her hand up peaceable as she approached the child. “Calm down, who are you?” 

“ _Mamae! Mamae! Mamae! _” The ghost continued to wail.__

“Sssh sssh, what are you seeing.” 

The boy didn’t answer. He gave a terrified scream and bolted down the rightmost corridor as the skeletons that had been lying on the floor rose up to attack the interlopers. Surana chased after him once the dead were dead once more and found that his trail ended beside an opened sarcophagus. Bracing in case she found something vile, Surana, with some help, forced the lid the rest of the way open. The sarcophagus was empty, it’s occupant probably lying in the next room over hewn to pieces, save for an intricately carved tablet. 

There were no words, but even if there had been Surana wouldn’t have been able to read them. She brushed her fingers over the beautifully detailed carving that served as instructions. 

“What is that?” Morrigan asked. Surana held it out for the others to inspect. 

“A ritual of some sort,” Surana said. “Given the placement and use of owls here,” she pointed, “I think it’s a rite to Fallow . . . Felon . . . er . . . the Elvhen god of the dead. Also, we’re in a crypt, I think, so it would make sense.” 

She looked back down at the carvings. “If we find the altar and the pool . . . I would like . . . the spirits here are obviously restless, and running about. With the veil being as thin as it is it might be a good idea to complete the ritual and show respect and maybe give the ghosts some peace?” 

She expected someone, Sten perhaps, to protest the waste of time, but no one did. Zevran gave a small, laid back shrug, but he was only in a hurry to be not in a ruin any longer and Leliana, Wynne and Alistair seemed to think it was a sweet thought she had. Morrigan admitted curiosity and Sten just nodded. It was right to lay the dead to rest. 

Surana wrapped the tablet and stuck it carefully into her pack. While they looked for a room with a pool or else more werewolves. If there wasn’t a pool and an altar nearby, she could do it once they left the ruins. An altar was really just a table one put effort into being somber at, wasn’t it. 

They found the altar not far from where they had found the tablet. Another round room but this one felt safer. In the center of the room was a small natural pool, the stones green and slick with moss, the water cool and clear and housing a small jar. 

Surana took the tablet out and studied it again. She nodded and set her pack down, taking a few moments to center herself. This was a rite for the dead and they deserved her full attention. Her companions fell silent, content to watch. 

She thought of Fennik, who had flung himself from the tower. He had been an elf. He daydreamed about the Dalish and devoured everything about ancient elvhen culture he had been able to get his hands on. 

She remembered his scream and the look on his face when he paralyzed her to keep her from screaming for help or trying to save him. 

A wave of sadness, appropriate to the task at hand, washed over her. This rite would be for Fennik as well, wouldn’t it. He’d always hated the Chantry. 

She filled the earthen jug with water from the pool and cradled it carefully to keep from splashing as she walked to the altar and set it down. Kicking her robe out of the way, Surana knelt and prostrated herself the way the elves on the tablet had. 

Something warm passed through her, like fingers brushing through her hair with praise. 

She straightened and took jug from where it sat. She raised it to her mouth and took a single sip, the water was unexpectedly sweet. It tingled on her tongue, buzzing the way lyrium smoke buzzed in her head when it was being used for rituals. 

Surana poured the rest of the water back into the pool and yelped as the clay shattered in her hands. 

“Neria!” 

“I’m fine!” She assured Alistair. “Fine. Just. . . did you hear that?” She turned and the door that had stood, unremarked despite its impressive size, had swung open. “Shall we investigate?” 

They walked through the doors and stood in a mighty crypt. “This is where the ancients came to sleep, I believe.” Zevran said, he looked around with interest, though not the wonder that possessed Surana or the curiosity that had drawn Morrigan. 

“Sleep?” Alistair asked. 

“According to legend, the ancient elvhen were immortal. When they tired of life they would sleep and explore the fade. They called it Uthenera, I think.” Surana answered. “The eternal sleep.” She leaned on her staff and looked around. The room was round, a thin walkway around a sunken catacomb, the stairs to which had been smashed by tree roots with stairs leading up to a raised platform in the center, a pair of sarcophaguses at the top. “Maybe the source of the spirits discomfort is up there.” She started up the stairs. 

At the top of the stairs, sure enough, waited another spirit. A woman this time, calling frantically for her child in a language that Surana couldn’t understand. She turned when she noticed them and screamed. Magic exploded from her translucent fingers and Sten arched back, unable to even shout as the breath was crushed from his lungs. 

“ _Shit!_ ” Surana threw a paralyzing bolt at the shade, enough to break the spell so Sten could breath again. He hit the floor with both hands and when he came up he came up swinging. 

The ghost summoned more spirits to attack them but Morrigan and Zevran were on it, Zevran’s knives enchanted with ice as he ducked and darted while Morrigan shifted into a giant spider.

A calm settled over the crypt as soon as the shade was dead. Surana looked at Sten to make sure he was alright and, other than looking slightly more surly than usual, he seemed to be. To her relief. 

Leliana plucked debris from Surana’s hair. “It feels much kinder here now, no?” She said. “You were right about this being the place that the discomfort was coming from.” 

Surana gave her a grateful smile for the praise. “There might be more further in, but thanks.” She reached up to push her bangs back. “ _I_ feel better, at least. More at peace and less like I’m just stepping on the bones of ancestors I’ve never really. . . thought about.” She bit down on the inside of her cheek and shook the thought away. “Nevermind, I’ll have my elvhen identity crisis later. Let’s go find the Maker-damned werewolves and get to the bottom of this.”

* * *

They walked for a while, getting lost and turned around more than once. When, as a group, they decided they were hungry they took a small break in what had been a library or a study of some sort. Surana’s initial excitement was crushed when she realized that the books were mostly in ancient Tevene, which she only barely read, and falling apart, rendered mostly illegible by the passing of the years. 

She was still looking, because looking made her feel better about having lost the Circle’s library and having given her most recent book to a madman in order to get a stupid acorn for a rhyming tree. It was while looking that she stumbled upon the phylactery. It looked _almost_ like hers had, only more intricate, set in gold and inscribed with runes. 

The moment she touched it her thoughts began to cloud. Memories, her own at first and then more and more changing to a life that hadn’t been hers. A life in a forest surrounded by trees and damp earthy smells. She could feel another consciousness, the one to whom these memories belonged and waited. The presence pulled away from her. Surana could feel loss, imprisonment, centuries abandoned and aimless while its world was torn apart. 

_I didn’t mean to frighten you,_ Surana thought, _I’m sorry._

The presence calmed. She felt it hover between choices and then tug at her like a child tugs at a teacher’s sleeve, begging her to stay. Through memories Surana watched as ages flew by, the ruins were built, the phylactery set on the shelf, loved, cherished, forgotten, dropped. The presence within slept and awoke and went mad and slept again. It had been an elf, it thought, like she was. Surana saw a reflection in a pool the face was her face, but it wasn’t her. Magic. It knew, had known magic. It had crushed enemies beneath fire that fell from the sky. 

_You were a mage?_ She asked. 

There was another flash of images. A mage, yes, but clad in shining heavy armor and wielding a greatsword. Mage and warrior both. _Ena’sal’in’abelas_ , Triumphant Sorrow. An Arcane Warrior. 

_Is there anything I can do for you?_

The presence went blank for a moment and then slowly, pictures began to filter into her mind. Memories, the training it had undergone, began to sink in as though she had known them her entire life. 

_A gift?_ , she asked. 

There was an affirmative pulsing and then and hesitant image, shaking. She watched herself set the phylactery on an altar in the library. The gem exploded. Freedom. Nothingness. 

Surana nodded. 

A grateful wave washed over her. A man kissing her cheeks, tears where his eyelashes brushed her skin. 

She straightened and turned and set the phylactery on the altar. It exploded, as the vision had shown. 

There was a confused shout behind her and Neria turned, startled and equally confused to find her companions staring at her. 

“What was _that?_ ” Leliana asked. 

“You zoned out for a while there, my friend.” Zevran informed her. 

“Oh. . . I. . .” Surana pushed her bangs back. “There was a thing, a guy, in the gem. An ancient elf.” 

“In the gem . . . you just exploded.” 

“Yes. It, he, I suppose, deserved to be laid to rest after centuries of imprisonment.” Surana looked at the broken, bloody shards. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to waste more time.” 

“You did well, Kadan.” Sten spoke over everyone else as they started to speak. 

“It gave me it’s memories.” She said. “Come on, let’s go.”

* * *

They pushed open a door at the end of a long hallway, continuing the descent into the bowels of the ruins. Opening the door triggered a trap and fire spewed down from piping above the door, Surana managed to roll back in time that only her robes were caught in the flames, but not fast enough to keep from catching an arrow in her arm. 

She tore it out and threw shield up over the party. “Morrigan! The flames!” 

“I can disarm the traps.” Zevran snapped. “Alistair, I will need your shield. 

Ice flew from Morrigan’s staff to free the pipes, giving Alistair and Zevran a window of opportunity to dart inside so Zevran could work with Alistair as a bulwark. 

Another arrowed, aimed for Surana, bounced off of Sten’s armor and Leliana retaliated with an arrow of her own, catching the skeleton in the neck and severing it’s head. 

“Lucky shot.” Surana praised. 

“Maker preserve us.” 

Wynne focused her energies on healing the party as they advanced into the trapped room full of skeletons. Advance, freeze flames and target archers while Zevran disarms the trap, advance. Slow but steady and they all made it out the otherside, singed and bleeding but breathing. 

Surana tore the burned bit off the hem of her filthy robe and wiped soot on her cheeks and she tugged an irritated hand over her face. She was going to need new clothes, fairly immediately, but they were all back on Bodhan’s wagon. 

“We’ve got to be getting close, right?” She asked. 

“Indeed.” Morrigan purred. “Those, are werewolf tracks.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most of the elvhen in this chapter was taken directly from the game and therefore isn't translated because Bioware didn't give us a translation and in Fenxshiral's elvhen it doesn't make much sense. The exception is "Ena'sal'in'abelas" which is one of the terms for an Arcane Warrior
> 
> also, as an utter aside I suppose, I've started a tumblr specifically for this AU if that holds any interest for anyone. neriasuranaic.tumblr.com


	5. Break These Chains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Surana meets the Lady of the Forest, also known as Witherfang. Brief rape mention, probably didn't warrant the tag but better safe than sorry.

The tracks Morrigan had noticed lead deeper into the ruins, passed more skeletons and even an arcane horror. Surana tensed before they passed through every archway, straining her ears in case of an attack. 

None came. 

The tracks disappeared into a deep pool of water. 

“You must be joking.” Leliana complained. “You do not expect us to swim in all our gear?” She directed Surana’s attention to her arrows and Surana bit down on her lip and nodded. The fletching would get wet and useless. 

“We shouldn’t _all_ go anyway.” Surana said. “It must be getting close to nightfall and some of us should head back to the Dalish in case the werewolves launch another attack. I’ll go deal with Witherfang.” Surana shrugged her pack off her shoulders and handed it to Leliana. “Can you find your way back?” 

“I’ll go with her,” Sten said. 

“I’m with you,” Alistair said, looking at the water. “Swimming in plate, that’ll be fun.” 

“I’ll stay with you and Alistair,” Morrigan sighed, looking _exceptionally_ put upon. “I would suggest that Wynne accompany them as well.” 

Wynne started to look offended, her nostrils flaring and her lips beginning to purse. Surana, however, nodded. “The Dalish need all the help they can get.” 

“I suppose that's true.” 

Stanton barked. 

“Yes, you’re coming with me.” Surana said. “I thought that was obvious.” 

“I had assumed as much.” Zevran grinned, sheathing his weapons. “I am sworn to your side, after all. As close as you might like.”

Surana laughed and gave him a little shove. “I was _talking_ to _Stanton_ , arse.” 

Zevran shrugged. 

The members who would be swimming handed their packs to those heading back to the Dalish camp and entered the water. Surana’s tattered robes stuck to her skin and her staff made swimming difficult. A fact made worse when she remembered abruptly that she didn’t know _how_ to swim. 

She had read about it, knew the theory, but it had never really come up. 

She began to panic, legs and arms kicking wildly. She couldn’t see anything. Blind. Couldn’t breathe. An arm curled around her waist and Surana froze, tense, she inhaled water as she was dragged deeper down. 

Then there was air and light. Hands curled around her wrists and pulled her out of the water. She coughed and sputtered and gasped on the stone floor, vomiting up water and panic. “I can’t,” she coughed. “I forgot I can’t.” Surana wiped spittle from her lips with her forearm. “I never learned to swim.” 

Stanton licked her face and Surana pushed his head away, coughing again, trying to heave the last of the water from her lungs. When she opened her eyes, she wasn’t surprised to see Alistair, Morrigan and Zevran staring at her, clearly terrified. Zevran still had an arm around her waist, Alistair had held her wrists and dragged her up to the air. “I’m fine.” she coughed again. “Fine.” 

“How do you just _forget_ that you can’t swim?” Alistair demanded, his kind voice shaking. 

Surana gave a lopsided shrug. “It. . . never came up? In the tower?” 

“ _Maker_.” 

Surana set her staff down and used Stanton to climb to her feet. “We need to dry off. If we pile the metal over there I can dry it with fire.” 

“Cloth and leather?” Zevran asked, one eyebrow raised and the familiar, wicked smile back on his mouth in place of the earlier concern. 

“Nothing I can do for that. But it wouldn’t hurt to ring out.” 

“You two. Turn around.” Morrigan pointed the other direction and snapped. 

Stanton shook to dry himself. 

“If either of them attempts to peek, kill them.” Morrigan addressed the dog and he barked once and then growled at Alistair and Zevran until laughing and sheepish (Zevran was laughing, Alistair was sheepish) they turned around. Surana and Morrigan turned the other way and Surana tugged her tattered, soaked robe over her head and wrung it out as quickly as possible, shaking in the cold. Her eyes strayed to Morrigan for a moment, the other woman’s pale skin starting to prickle in the cold, her lily white breasts, normally at least a little visible anyway, pink from cold, nipples hard little stubs. 

Surana dropped her gaze like it was on fire and berated herself. 

She pulled her damp robe back on, the cold helping and looked over her shoulder where Zevran, naked as the day he was born and unbothered by that fact was helping Alistair with the wet leather straps of his armor. Alistair had his face in his hands, the tips of his ears scarlet. 

She tried not to watch, but when Alistair dropped his breastplate into the pile with his sword and shield she allowed herself the pleasure of studying the muscles on his back, tensing and relaxing as he wrung out his undertunic. 

“Enjoying the view, Neria?” Zevran laughed, looking back over his shoulder at her. “And here I thought none of us were supposed to peek.” 

“I--I wasn’t _peeking_!” 

Alistair turned his head to look at her and she turned quickly to the pile of metal and blew fire above them to dry but not damage the gear. She thought she heard him snort a laugh.

* * *

Dry --mostly-- and re-armored, they took better stock of their surroundings. Dim light came from further down a long hallway, torches flickering in the dim. Surana and Zevran exchanged looks, their elvhen eyes reflecting the little light back as though they were cats.

“Zevran and I will take point,” Surana suggested, “as we can see better.” 

They dispatched the sentries quickly and hurried along dark, cluttered corridors heavy with the musty smell of wet dog and wood rot. 

“I think we’re getting close.” Alistair said, keeping his voice down so it wouldn’t carry past the rest of the party. She wasn’t really sure why they were sneaking, werewolves had keen noses and keen ears, they weren’t going to take them by _surprise_. 

Habit, she supposed. Maybe practice. 

They found another flight of stairs and started down it, cautiously, Surana opened the door at the end of the landing. Three werewolves waited in the middle of the room and the middle one, larger than his brothers, standing straighter, held up a hand to her. Surana lowered her staff, but kept it pointed at him as he began to approach, only three steps, enough that she knew he was addressing her, but not attacking. 

“Be at ease!” The werewolf snapped as the flanking werewolves began to growl. “We do not wish any more of our people hurt.” He turned to Surana, yellow eyes distrustful and lips pulled back to bare his sharp teeth. “I ask you this now, outsider: are you willing to parley?” 

“I’ve been _trying_.” Surana snapped, cold and irritation getting the better of her temper. 

“I come on behalf of The Lady. She believes you may not know all you should know.” 

“I’m _aware_ of that.” Surana growled. 

“She means you no harm, provided your willingness to parley is an honest one.” 

“How do we know this isn’t another ambush?” Alistair asked. In her periphary Surana could see the grip in his shield change, ready to move. 

“What would be the point?” The werewolf asked. “You have already proven your strength. We have no wish to anger you further.” 

Surana nodded. “Very well. Take me to this Lady then.” 

The werewolf nodded and the door behind him was opened by a different werewolf. The party clustered together, weapons at the ready in case this _was_ an ambush. The escorting wolves left them at the door, however, and inside the chamber was flooded with sunlight. An old tree had broken through through the walls and the rubble and the stone floor was cracked and eroded as the forest claimed the land again. 

Sitting on one of the large roots was a woman. Her skin was pale green and her wild black hair twined with sticks and leaves, some of which were still blooming. She was naked, thick vines tangling up around her legs and sprouting from her arms. She did not smile when she saw them, but slid gracefully from her seat to approach. Grass sprouted in her footprints on the dirt and her eyes were yellow and slitted, more wild than the eyes of the werewolves around her. 

“They violate our most precious sanctum!” Swiftrunner, still injured from his earlier attempt on Surana’s life, growled. The Lady stroked his fur as she passed and he fell silently, calming at her touch. 

Surana gave Stanton’s ears a scratch. 

When The Lady spoke it was politely, in a voice that rustled like hard wind through the bushes. “I bid you welcome, Mortals, I am the Lady of the Forest.” 

_Witherfang_ , Surana thought. What she said instead was, “The wolf at the door said I wasn’t in possession of all the facts.” 

“No doubt you have questions, Mortal. There are things that Zathrian has not told you.” 

Surana nodded, wishing that someone would tell her what was going on without all the foreplay. It was the way of spirits, she figured, and the woman in front of her was _clearly_ a spirit. It was just annoying and she was still damp which was even _more_ annoying. “Yes. And those things would be?” 

“It was Zathrian who cast the curse these poor creatures suffer. The same curse his people now also suffer. Centuries ago, when the Dalish first came to these lands, a tribe of humans lived near the forest and sought to drive the elves away. Zathrian was a young man then, he had a son and a daughter he loved greatly.” 

Surana opened her mouth to argue because elves didn’t _live_ that long, at least not any more. Perhaps the Spirit was confused, time, Surana was lead to understand, didn’t work the same way in the Fade as it did in the physical plane. 

She decided not to interrupt. 

“While out hunting one day, the pair were captured by humans in the forest. The boy was tortured and eventually killed,” The Lady explained. “But the girl they raped and left for dead. The Dalish found her, but when she later learned she was with child, she killed herself.” 

Surana’s jaw dropped open and hot tears started to sting the corners of her eyes. She squeezed them close and forced herself to focus. “They deserved whatever curse Zathrian placed on them. Monsters.” She added the last word as an aside and felt Alistair’s hand settle on her shoulder. 

“Indeed they did.” The Lady agreed mournfully. “Zathrian came to this ruin and summoned a terrible spirit, binding it to the body of a great wolf.” 

“Witherfang.” Surana stated. 

The Lady nodded. “Witherfang hunted the humans of the tribe. Many were killed but some were cursed by his blood, becoming mindless beasts, twisted, just as Witherfang is twisted himself.” 

“Until I found you, my lady, and knew peace.” Swiftrunner spoke up. He knelt before The Lady and she placed a hand on his head, running her knotted wooden fingers gently through his fur. 

She smiled faintly, the gesture not touching the sadness that filled her eyes. “I showed Swiftrunner that there was another side to his bestial nature. I soothed his rage and his humanity emerged, then he brought others to me.” 

“They seem plenty savage to me,” Morrigan scoffed. 

“Why ambush the Dalish then?” Surana asked. “Revenge?” 

“In part,” The Lady admitted. “We seek to end the curse. The crimes committed against Zathrian’s children were grave, but they were committed centuries ago by those who are long dead. Word has been sent to him every time his landships pass near this place, but he has always ignored us.” Her eyes hardened and her voice darkened. “We will _no longer be denied_.” 

“We spread the curse to his people.” Swiftrunner snapped his jaws. “To save them, he must break the curse.” 

The brief moment of temper passed, a cloud over the sun, and The Lady’s voice was gentle once more. “Please, mortal. You must go to him. Bring him here. If he sees these creatures, hears their plight, surely he will agree to end the curse.” 

Surana bit down on the inside of her cheek. If Zathrian wasn’t willing to break the curse to save his people _already_ then telling him “oh the poor werewolves” probably wasn’t going to do it. And that was assuming that it was the _same_ Zathrian, which was unlikely because elves hadn’t lived for _centuries_ since the fall of Arlathan. 

But that would be better explained from Zathrian himself. Perhaps the elves and the werewolves could discuss this misunderstanding and the Lady and Zathrian could work out a solution together. 

Surana nodded to herself and then looked The Lady in the eye. “Very well, I’ll go speak with Zathrian and try to bring him here.” 

“Tell him if he refuses I will ensure Witherfang is never found. He will _never_ cure his clan.” The Lady gestured to her right, “through that door is a passage to the surface, return quickly, if you can.”

“I’ll try.” 

Surana left the room and followed the narrow passage up several flights of stairs to the main foyer, in time to catch Leliana and the others, standing in the center of the room speaking with . . . 

. . . Zathrian. 

“Ah,” he turned to look at her. “And there they are already.” 

“What are you doing here?” Surana asked. 

Zathrian’s expression informed her flatly that he had answered that question already and Leliana’s scowling pink lips told her had hadn’t given an answer anyone had liked. 

“You carved a safe path through the forest.” 

Leliana rolled her eyes almost audibly. 

“Safe enough for me to follow, anyway.” 

Morrigan snorted a cruel laugh, icier even than the one she reserved for Alistair. “He wishes to see if we have done his dirty work,” she told Surana, “is that not the case, Sorcerer?” 

Zathrian’s brow wrinkled in displeasure. “Do not call me that, _witch_ ,” he barked at her. “I am keeper of this clan and have done what I must.” His eyes fixed themselves on Surana again. “Did you acquire the heart?” 

Surana shifted her weight, feeling rather like she was back in the tower and had failed a test. She swallowed and looked down at her feet. “I did not.” 

“You didn’t.” He got the exact same edge to his voice that Rupert had mastered. “May I ask, then, _why_ are you leaving the ruin?” 

Surana resisted the urge to apologize and step backwards. She forced her chin up and reminded herself that she was doing this for the good of the elvhen clan _and_ the werewolves and that Zathrian (oh look, he got the same wrinkle in the middle of his forehead that Rupert had when angry. Lovely) was _not_ her mentor. 

“The Lady wishes to parley with you and discuss breaking the curse.” For a moment she entertained the idea that maybe it _was_ the same Zathrian, in which case he would probably be unwilling and he would probably know that the Lady _was_ Witherfang. But elves _didn’t live that long_ and it was worth the try _regardless_.

“Oh, is _that_ what the Spirit calls itself now? And what does _she_ want with me, if I might inquire?” 

“She wants you to break the curse.” Suddenly it seemed rather more likely that it was the _same_ Zathrian. But how was that even _possible_? “And won’t summon Witherfang until you do.” 

“You know she is _actually_ Witherfang, I trust.” 

The similarities between him and Rupert were bordering on spooky. 

“Yes.” Surana said. “But that doesn’t change her request and rather ensures her ability to keep him hidden, don’t you think?” 

Zathrian sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “ _She_ is an ancient spirit I summoned and bound to the body of a wolf. Her nature is that of the forest itself, beautiful and terrible, savage and serene, two sides of a single being. The curse came from her and those afflicted with it mirror her own nature, becoming savage beasts as well as human.”

It _was_ the same Zathrian. Surana bit down on the questions of _how_ for the moment. “The werewolves have regained their minds.” 

“I find that difficult to believe.” Zathrian scoffed, a truly Morrigan-level scoff. “When they attacked my clan they were the same beasts they have always been. They deserve to be wiped out. Not defended. Come. I will accompany you back to the Spirits chamber. Let us go speak to the spirit, I will force her into Witherfang’s form. He may then be killed and the heart taken.” 

“And you won’t even _consider_ talking to them?” 

“ _Why?_ They are the same _beasts_ they have always been. Their nature is unchanged. All they will want is revenge, or a release that I will not give them. No. Let us take the heart and end it.” 

“But they _have_ , Zathrian.” Surana’s voice took on a pleading note. “I’ve _spoken_ with them. They’ve taken names, even.” 

“And? Even if that’s the case they are the same beasts their ancestors were. They deserve nothing less than the misery they possess. This is not your battle _da’len_.” 

“You _made_ this my fight.” Surana snapped. It wasn’t true, technically. She had interceded of her own will. “Are you still so full of hatred that you will let your clan suffer and die?” 

“You were not there! You didn’t see what they did! To my son,” Zathrian’s eyes closed and his hands clenched to fists. “To my daughter. You are elvhen. You know what it is like to have injustice thrown in your face. Their crimes could not go unpunished!” 

Surana’s heart ached. “And _those_ men deserved what they got. Mostly the ones Witherfang mauled who _then_ centuries ago.” 

“I remember them as if it were yesterday.” Zathrian opened his eyes and they were wet with grief. “Even if they are more than animals now, they desire nothing but revenge. They will never let my clan be.” 

“At least meet with them; that’s all I can ask.” 

“And if they desire revenge, not talk? Will _you_ safeguard me from harm?” 

“Yes.” Surana nodded. “Absolutely.”

“I fail to see the purpose in this.” Zahrain said with defeat, “but it has been many centuries. Let us see what the spirit has to say.” 

They walked back down all the stairs in silence. Surana at the front with Stanton by her side, an honor guard surrounding an elf who should have died centuries before, taking him to speak with a woman who was a spirit and a wolf about a curse that created bloody werewolves so the elves would help her stop a blight before it swallowed a country on the brink of civil war. 

Surana shook her head, it had been a long month. 

Had it only been a month? It felt long. Years and years longer. 

They entered the room and the werewolves began to growl, a soft, hateful noise that filled the room just at the edge of Surana’s hearing. The Lady and Zathrian approached one another, stopping within arms reach and staring into one another’s faces before they began to bicker. 

Greagoir and Irving had bickered like that, though never as sharply or while looking as pained. 

It took her a moment to realize she was talked about. Surana blinked and backtracked the parts of conversation she had missed. 

“Have you told the mortal how it was created?”

“He said he summoned you and bound you to a wolf,” Surana answered.   
“And he did.” The Lady’s expression darkened. “But such powerful magic could not be accomplished without Zathrian’s own blood. Witherfang and I are one, and Zathrian is bound to us. Your people, Zathrian, believe you have rediscovered the immortality of your ancestors, but it is not true. So long as the curse exists, so do you.” 

Surana’s fist tightened. At least that answered the question of _how_ Zathrian had survived. 

“No!” Zathrian insisted. “That is not how it is!” 

“More _fucking_ blood magic.” Surana growled. “How far will you go for your revenge?” 

“I did it for my _people_! For my son. For my _daughter_!” 

“Zathrian’s death will not end the curse,” the Lady shook her head. “But his life is bound to it and I believe his death plays some part in it’s ending.” 

“Then we kill him! Rip him apart!” Swiftrunner poised to move and Surana moved to place herself between him and Zathrian. 

“Ha! What could would that do you.” Zathrian snarled. ”Only I know how the ritual ends and I will _never_ do it.” 

“I told you it would come to this, brothers! We must kill them all!” 

“See,” Zathrian looked at Surana. “They turn on you as quickly. Do what you have come here to do or get out of my way.” 

Surana whirled on him. She was five foot two, dirty and bloody and still damp. Her bangs stuck to her forehead and her purple-blue eyes _blazed_. “You will _end_ this curse if I have to force you to myself!” 

“We’re standing for what’s right here,” Alistair said. “No matter what.” 

“Fine! Then you will die as well. You will suffer and _I_ have suffered.” Zathrian spat. He threw his hands forward as the werewolves began to move to attack. They froze solid but Surana dove out of the way in time. She hit the ground hard and rolled her her feet. Countering with a paralyzing spell of her own as Zathrian began to summon a blizzard. 

Shades pulled out of the ground to assault them on Zathrian’s behalf. Surana shouted over the noise. “We _cannot_ kill Zathrian! Do _not_ kill Zathrian!” 

They beat the apparitions back as Zathrian began to break free of Surana’s spell. She bore down on him with fire in her eyes and lightning in her hands. 

He dropped his staff and crumpled. Tears began to race down his cheeks. “I cannot cannot defeat you.” 

“Hrrrr! Kill him! End it now!” Swiftrunner barked. 

“No, Swiftrunner.” The Lady set her hand on his chest. “We will _not_ kill him. If there is no room in our hearts for mercy, how can we expect there to be room in his?” 

Zathrian buried his face in his hands. “I cannot do as you ask, Spirit. I am too old to know mercy. All I see are the faces of my children, my people. I . . . I cannot do it.” 

The anger began to drain out of Surana, the fire left her eyes and the lightning left her fingers and she felt tired and sore and miserably sympathetic for the old man in front of her and for the werewolves behind her. 

“This has gone on long enough, Zathrian.” Surana knelt beside him. “Your people are suffering for it.” 

“Perhaps. . .” Zathrian lowered his hands. “Perhaps I have lived too long. I am an old man, this hate in me is like a gnarled root. It consumes my soul.” He looked up at The Lady and a smile, honest and true, graced her face for the first time. 

It didn’t feel _happy_ so much as gentle. 

“What about you, Spirit? You are bound to the curse same as I am. Do you not fear the end?” 

She knelt before him and took his face in her hands. “You made me,” she whispered, barely loud enough for Surana to hear. “You made consciousness and form where there was none. I have known joy and sorrow and rage, tasted love and hope and all the joy that is life but I desire nothing so much as an end. Please, maker, show mercy.” 

Zathrian curled his hand around her wrist. “You shame me, Spirit. I am an old man, living long past him time. I am too old for Mercy.” He closed his eyes. “But perhaps you are right. This has gone on long enough.” 

“You’ll end it then.” 

“Yes.” Zathrian sighed. “Let us be finished.” 

The ritual was a simple one, Surana couldn’t make out all the parts, but it happened quickly and then the life went out of Zathrian’s body. He collapsed forward and The Lady wrapped her arms around him before she began to break apart into leaves and dust. The werewolves howled their goodbye and then began to change. Fur replaced with skin, talons with flat nails and soon Surana was surrounded by naked human beings and a handful of elves, rather than a pack of werewolves. 

The one who had been Swiftrunner looked at himself like he couldn’t believe it. “It’s . . . over. She’s gone and . . .we’re human! I can scarcely believe it!” 

Surana maintained careful eye contact. 

“Yes,” she nodded. “You’re human. And I . . . should get back to the elves.” 

The sun had set by the time they emerged from the ruins. The cold bit through Surana’s damp robes and she shivered as she walked, wrapping her arms tight around herself to combat the cold. She yawned and started to fall behind, feet dragging and head nodding. 

Sten scooped her up, not even pausing in his step as he did so. Surana, initially confused, settled for glaring at him until she yawned, the sound interrupting her attempt to question what he thought he was doing. 

“I understand you almost drowned, Kadan.” Sten said without inflection. “Callow.” 

“I--” she glowered. “I can walk.” 

“You are too slow. We will reach the dalish at dawn at your pace.” 

“Thats is . . .” she yawned again. “That is not the--poooiiint.” The word was stretched and pitiful as she tried to speak through her exhaustion. 

“Sleep.” 

It felt like an order. 

She obeyed.

* * *

She awoke to the smell of breakfast and a wood fire, lying away from the main encampment her head on a thin pillow beside the statue of Fen’harel, where she wouldn’t be woken immediately. She smelled like mud and blood and soot and damp and slightly musty from having gone to sleep in wet robes but it was better than waking up wondering who had changed her. 

She accompanied Leliana to a stream near the camp, where the Halla were grazing and the two chatted as they washed and changed into fresh clothes the new dalish keeper had provided. Alistair had explained Zathrian’s fate when they had returned in the night and the elves promised their support. 

Surana listened and let Leliana braid her hair as they took a moment to relax, knowing that no one would bother them while they were bathing. 

“Have I ever told you that I really like the way you tend to wear your hair?” Leliana asked as her fingers expertly wove the strands into a more intricate braid than Surana usually wore. 

“Really? Thank you?” Surana chuckled. “It’s just the easiest way to keep it out of my way, but I’m glad you like it.” 

“It’s simple and it suits you,” Leliana laughed. “Not like the hairstyles we wore in Orlais.”

“Oh?” 

“They included everything from ribbons to flowers, bells.” Leliana plucked a flower and started to incorporate it. “One year feathers were all the rage and Lady Elise decided she had to out do everyone else and wore live songbirds in her hair.” 

Surana twisted. “No fucking way.” 

“She did! The chirping was actually quite charming for a while, but you must realize, terrified little birdies often have loose bowels.” 

Surana laughed. “Andraste’s ass, those poor birds!” 

“I don’t envy them.” Leliana clicked her tongue, “Lady Elise never washed her hair.” 

“I bet she did after that.” 

“Yes.” Leliana tied the braid back with a ribbon and Surana turned to face her. “But I was trying to pay you a compliment. Forgive me, my mind wanders so. It’s just . . . I feel so comfortable talking to you. Like I could say anything and you wouldn’t judge me.” 

“I _like_ the way you ramble. You tell the best stories.” 

“You’re such a pleasure to talk to. I haven’t felt this close to anyone in a long time. I really enjoy your company. These moments in particular.”

“Likewise.” Surana beamed. “You’re a treasured friend.” She pushed herself up to standing. “Come on, if we dally too much longer someone will come looking, propriety or not. We should wrap up here and get started on the road to Denerim before it gets to afternoon.” She offered Leliana her hand and Leliana took it. “Tell me more about Orlais as we walk.” 

“I would be delighted to.”


End file.
